Macleod of Dare eBook

But not to forget herself. A new gladness filled
his heart when he thought of her—­thought
of her not now as a dream or a vision, but as the
living and breathing woman whose musical laugh seemed
still to be ringing in his ears. He could see
her plainly—­the face all charged with life
and loveliness; the clear bright eyes that he had no
longer any fear of meeting; the sweet mouth with its
changing smiles. When Major Stuart came home
that night he noticed a most marked change in the
manner of his companion. Macleod was excited,
eager, talkative; full of high spirits and friendliness;
he joked his friend about his playing truant from
his wife. He was anxious to know all about the
major’s adventures, and pressed him to have
but one other cigar, and vowed that he would take
him on the following evening to the only place in London
where a good dinner could be had. There was gladness
in his eyes, a careless satisfaction in his manner;
he was ready to do anything, go anywhere. This
was more like the Macleod of old. Major Stuart
came to the conclusion that the atmosphere of London
had had a very good effect on his friend’s spirits.

When Macleod went to bed that night there were wild
and glad desires and resolves in his brain that might
otherwise have kept him awake but for the fatigue
he had lately endured. He slept, and he dreamed;
and the figure that he saw in his dreams—­though
she was distant, somehow—­had a look of
tenderness in her eyes, and she held a red rose in
her hand.

CHAPTER XXII.

DECLARATION.

November though it was, next morning broke brilliantly
over London. There was a fresh west wind blowing;
there was a clear sunshine filling the thoroughfares;
if one were on the lookout for picturesqueness even
in Bury Street, was there not a fine touch of color
where the softly red chimney-pots rose far away into
the blue? It was not possible to have always
around one the splendor of the northern sea.

And Macleod would not listen to a word his friend
had to say concerning the important business that
had brought them both to London.

“To-night, man—­to-night—­we
will arrange it all to-night,” he would say,
and there was a nervous excitement about his manner
for which the major could not at all account.

“Sha’n’t I see you till the evening,
then?” he asked.

“No,” Macleod said, looking anxiously
out of the window, as if he feared some thunder-storm
would suddenly shut out the clear light of this beautiful
morning. “I don’t know—­perhaps
I may be back before—­but at any rate we
meet at seven. You will remember—­seven?”

“Indeed I am not likely to forget it,”
his companion said, for he had been told about five-and-thirty
times.

It was about eleven o’clock when Macleod left
the house. There was a grateful freshness about
the morning even here in the middle of London.
People looked cheerful; Piccadilly was thronged with
idlers come out to enjoy the sunshine; there was still
a leaf or two fluttering on the trees in the square.
Why should this man go eagerly tearing away northward
in a hansom—­with an anxious and absorbed
look on his face—­when everybody seemed
inclined to saunter leisurely along, breathing the
sweet wind, and feeling the sunlight on their cheek?